And the Miss Ran Away With the Rake

chapter 12



There is nothing I can say that will gain your forgiveness for my unpardonable lapse.

Found in a letter never sent by Miss Spooner to Mr. Dishforth




Henry took a deep breath and pushed open the door to the library, striding into the middle of the room. Feigning a measure of shock and surprise, he said, “Miss Dale! Whatever are you doing here?”

“Lord Henry?” Her face was the epitome of horror. “What are you doing here?” she finally managed, after—he guessed—she’d gone through a myriad of questions.

You’re Dishforth?

No, it can’t be true.

She glanced at the door, then her eyes narrowed. How the devil am I going to get rid of him?

Henry watched her as she moved around the settee in the middle of the room, strategically placing it between them.

A good plan, but it was hardly the gulf that Henry suspected they needed if they were to truly keep their distance.

“My lord! What are you doing here?” This time her question was a demand.

“What am I doing here?” He forced a puzzled expression onto his face. “Why, I came to get a book, why else?”

“A book?”

No woman had ever sounded so relieved in her life.

To make good his point, he strolled over to the bookshelf and pulled one down. After thumbing through it for a moment, he looked around the room and proceeded to settle into the large chair by the fireplace.

Mr. Muggins opened one eye, examined this new addition to the room, thumped his tail a few times in approval and went back to sleep.

Miss Dale did not share the hound’s opinion. “What are you doing?”

“Thought I’d read a bit before I settle down for the night.”

“Well, you can’t!”

He glanced up from the page. “Pardon?”

“You mustn’t,” she told him.

“I mustn’t what?”

“Read that book! Not here.”

“It is a library, is it not?”

“Yes.”

“And this is where one normally finds a book to read, is it not?”

“Yes.”

“Yet I can’t read it here?”

“No.”

“Whyever not?”

“The light is poor.” She glanced around, searching for more coin to add to her lie. “Wouldn’t you be more comfortable in your own room?”

“No.” He stuck out his legs and tucked his boots atop the ottoman. “I rather prefer to read in here. I find this room quite agreeable.” Then he went back to the pages before him.

And while he wasn’t reading, he was counting. One, two, three, four, five . . .

“You need to leave.”

He glanced up. “Leave?”

“Yes,” she said. “Immediately.” She pointed toward the door.

Henry closed the book and tossed it atop a nearby table. “Miss Dale, I have the distinct impression you want to get rid of me. Whatever are you about?” He glanced at her from head to toe. “Are you waiting for a gentleman? Some late-hour assignation?”

Her mouth fell open, but she recovered quickly. “What a scandalous suggestion, my lord!”

But, he noted, she hadn’t denied it. “Is it?”

“Yes! Don’t you recall that I am nearly betrothed?”

“Oh, yes, that,” he mused, waving his hand in dismissal.

“Yes. That.” Her gaze flitted from him to the door and back again, as if she could will him out of his seat.

Henry settled in deeper. “Still, I suppose when one finds a lady alone in the library at this hour of the night—when she should be safely ensconced and chaperoned in the salon with the company of the other ladies all around her—one might assume that she is—”

“Oh, good heavens! Only a man of your inclinations would assume such a thing.”

He ignored the slight she’d thrust into his midsection. “Then what are you doing here, Miss Dale?”

Her lips pursed together and her brow furrowed as she scrambled for an answer. “A book. Of course. That’s why I came here.”

Yes, of course. “And you came here alone?”

“I was on my way up to bed.”

Bed. That word landed between them and caught them both in its snare, its implications.

“Alone?” He couldn’t help himself. He followed the seventh duke’s example and leered.

Just a bit.

“Of course,” she huffed. “As I was trying to explain, I have a megrim.” And then, remembering her malady, she pressed her hand to her brow. After a few moments of this dramatic repose, she opened one eye to see its effect.

He gave her his best imitation of Zillah’s stare—the one that said all too clearly that the preceding statement was a steaming pile of horse manure.

“Well, it isn’t a truly horrific one. Yet. Just the beginnings of one,” she corrected, fingers going to press her forehead as if that could stem the rising pain. “After making my excuses to your sister and Lady Essex . . . in fact, it was Lady Essex’s suggestion that I retire early—”

“Who am I to disagree with my sister and Lady Essex?”

“Who, indeed?”

“That doesn’t explain how you ended up here, alone, in the library.”

“As I said, I came here to find a book.”

“To read?”

“Of course!”

“To help ease your megrim?”

Miss Dale stilled, like a doe cornered. Then she turned ever so slowly, her chin chucked up and her eyes full of determination.

He had to admire her daring. Her continued battle to maintain this charade.

“Not to read this evening, my lord,” she replied.

“No, of course not.” He shook his head, the master of concern and care.

Lying little minx.

“As you know, I like to arise early—”

Yes, he knew.

“And I thought that if I awoke refreshed, I might like to read before I came down for breakfast.” She finished with a triumphant smile, her chin tipping upward, daring him to refute her story.

He had to admit she had bottom.

But was a terrible liar.

Henry glanced up at the seventh duke’s portrait hanging over her shoulder.

What the devil are you waiting for?

Henry blinked. Had he just heard that? “Pardon?”

“I didn’t say anything,” she told him before she glanced over her shoulder. Henry could have sworn she flinched as she looked at the notorious rake.

There was little doubt in Henry’s mind what the duke would advise his namesake to do.

Get up. Take that bonny bit of muslin in your arms and declare yourself. It’s that simple.

If only it was. For now that he was faced with telling her the truth, he realized he wanted Daphne Dale to choose him for being him—not the man who had written those ridiculous letters.

Dishforth, he would tell Miss Dale, is a right proper prig.

No, Henry wanted her to defy everything that was sensible and proper. Demmit, defy her family as he would his, and choose him. Lord Henry Seldon.

So he began with the first of the seventh duke’s instructions. He got up.

Miss Dale regarded him warily, her fingers digging into the settee before her. “Are you leaving?”

She sounded rather hopeful.

“No,” he told her, crossing the room toward her.

She backed up until she stood right beneath the previous Henry Seldon.

“I came for something,” he told her as he stopped before her.

“Can I help you find it?” she offered, standing her ground. So you’ll be on your way.

“Yes, I believe you can,” he said, reaching out and hauling her into his arms. Rakish step number two accomplished. “Miss Dale, I have something to tell you.”

Overhead, Henry thought it was the duke’s turn to flinch.

Honesty? With a woman? Are you mad? Wait just a bloody moment, did you say Dale—

Henry blotted out any more notions of seeking his grandfather’s advice.

He could do this on his own from here. Thank you very much.

“Lord Henry?”

He looked down at her. “Yes, Miss Dale?”

“Did you know you have a collection of cobwebs on the shoulder of your jacket?”

He glanced over. “I shall advise my valet to be more careful in future.”

“Indeed, in fact—”

“Miss Dale, there is something I must tell you—”

“Now?” she glanced frantically at the door.

“Yes, now.”

“I really don’t think this is a good time.”

“I disagree,” he said. Then Lord Henry Arthur George Baldwin Seldon proved he was every inch the grandson of the seventh duke.

Daphne didn’t even have a chance to protest.

Not that she would have.

When Lord Henry’s lips met hers, she surrendered. To every bit of good sense, to any hope of a future that wasn’t marked in ruin.

For here he was, his lips hard and demanding. She opened up to him, and his tongue danced and slid over hers, enticing her to come along on this passionate exploration.

How could she deny him?

Her shawl fell to the floor. Whether she’d shrugged it off or he’d brushed it aside, she didn’t know, she didn’t care, for his fingers were sliding along the edge of her bodice, over her collarbone, twining into her hair and, finding the pins there, plucking them free until her hair tumbled down.

As it cascaded down, he moaned—growled, really—a sound both greedy and delirious. It was filled with desire and passion entwined in a deep earthy need that vibrated through her limbs, as if he’d touched her with his longing.

She answered back, pressing herself against him, her breasts against his chest, her hips swaying, a feminine reply that said she’d heard his call.

And still he kissed her. Long, hard, demanding.

Devouring her.

He held her fast, up against him, and there was no doubt the entire man was in the same state as his kiss.

Long. Hard. Demanding.

A sigh, a moan rose up from her depths, her hips brushing his as she drew even closer, as a desire to be right up against him, to draw him inside her, shivered through her.

His hands roamed over her, cupping her breasts, his thumb rolling over her nipple. It tightened into a bud beneath the muslin of her gown, and then the fabric was teased from her shoulders, leaving her bare to his touch.

Daphne shivered, but where the cool air touched her skin, Lord Henry’s lips followed.

She arched as his hot breath, his tongue washed over her shoulder, leaving a trail of desire in its wake. Then his head dipped lower, while his hand cupped her breast and brought it up for him to explore, to kiss, and then taking her nipple into his mouth, he sucked on it—leaving her gasping for air.

However could such a thing feel so good?

Oh, but it did, leaving her rising up on her tiptoes and clinging to his shoulders as he suckled one side and then the other, until even her breath was shuddering, coming in and out in ragged gasps.

He paused for a moment, and Daphne opened her eyes—when had she closed them?—and found him smiling at her.

Oh, what a smile. Full of dark, smoky passions. Full of possession. Like all Seldons, he had the coloring of a lion—that tawny hair, those dark eyes—and right now he looked every inch the great beast, hungry and ready to claim his stake.

Without asking, without a word, he swept her up into his arms and carried her across the room, kissing her as he went. When they came to the wide, deep gold brocade settee that sat in one of the shadowed corners, he laid her down and followed quickly, covering her with his body.

Daphne reached for him, her arms winding around his neck, her lips seeking his, her fingers twining in his hair, holding him, so she could find her way right back to that delicious, trembling state.

His body rocked against hers, as if seeking solace, seeking entry.

Between her legs, her body was tight and trembling, coiled with longing, and every time he slid against her, her insides quaked.

Yes. Yes. Please!

And so when she felt his hand draw her skirt up, a momentary shiver of panic ran through her.

Whatever was he going to do?

His fingers brushed over her small clothes, then slipped inside, brushing over the curls at her apex, then teasing past the folds and finding the taut nub beneath.

Daphne arched against his hand, her mouth opening in a wide O even as his fingers stroked her, beguiled her, sliding deeper, and then he slid a finger inside her—right into her, filling her, stretching her, drawing the wetness from her and sliding it back over her.

Back and forth he moved inside her, out, even as he kissed her, his tongue sliding over hers, sucking her into him, breathing her out. Her bare nipples rubbed against his shirt.

When the devil had he taken off his jacket? His waistcoat? She couldn’t remember.

She didn’t care. For the linen of his shirt brushed over the sensitive points, only adding to the building fires inside her. It was all building so quickly, his touch—insistent and teasing, drawing her upward. His kiss, demanding and insistent.

Come with me, love. Come with me, his body cried out to hers. Come see what we can find up here.

She rose with his touch, with his kiss. Let him lead her upwards, where there was no air, no light, just his touch and her need.

Her hips were moving on their own, urging him to touch her faster. Deeper. Harder.

The darkness burst into light, her mouth opened to cry out, but no words came out. Shattering waves rushed through her, tossing her, crashing over her, until she had gone as high as she could.

And when she began to fall, fluttering in the wind like a feather on the colliding currents, there was Lord Henry, holding her, whispering to her, teasing her still so the waves of pleasure continued until she was spent.

That was also when she heard the footsteps in the hall. The sharp trod of boots sending a warning refrain through her muddled senses.

She blinked once, then twice, and looked up at Lord Henry.

He grinned at her with a lion’s share of pride at what he’d done. What he’d drawn from her.

But her passion was replaced with panic.

Dishforth!

Oh, what had she done? What had Lord Henry done to her?

Pleased you immensely, I imagine.

Good heavens, would she ever be able to get the seventh duke out of her head? Oh, yes, it had been a pleasure.

But it was also ruinous. She had pleaded with Dishforth to come, and this was how she repayed his loyalty? By letting him find her entwined with another man?

Putting her hands to Lord Henry’s wall of a chest, she shoved with all her might and toppled him off the settee.

He landed on the carpet with a thump and a curse. “What the devil—”

“Oh, do be quiet,” she whispered. “He’s coming—”

“No, he’s not,” Lord Henry complained, rubbing his backside. “Whoever it is, they’ve gone.”

“Gone?” Daphne glanced briefly over her shoulder at him and then did a quick shake of her gown, righting the hem in place and tugging up her sleeves. “No, that cannot be. Oh, what have I done?”

“Daphne, wait,” he said. No more Miss Dale. She was Daphne. As if she was his.

But she couldn’t be his. Not now. Not ever.

“I cannot. Oh, however did I let this happen?” she moaned, and then fled.

Out the door and away from the pleasures and utter ruin that was Lord Henry Seldon.

But it was too late. For even as her slippers padded up the stairs, she knew.

It was far too late for Dishforth. Or any other man.

Now that she was ruined.

Lord Henry went to follow Daphne out of the library, but he found his path blocked by his nephew.

“Looks like she took the news hard,” Preston said, glancing up the stairs where Miss Dale had disappeared. “So much so that all her hairpins fell out.”

“Um, yes,” Henry managed.

“What went on in there?” The duke looked over Henry’s shoulder into the shadows of the library. “She didn’t break anything, did she? Like Hen did when that scoundrel Boland threw her over?”

Henry shook his head. Though he had rather feared she’d take up the pike on the wall. All that Kempton nonsense coming back to haunt him.

No, that cannot be. Oh, what have I done? Her words full of anguish, her expression rife with a rising anger. Once she got done blaming herself, then she’d aim her fury at him.

Rightly so.

“Then what did she say?” Preston asked again.

“Um, well,” Henry began, shuffling his feet and wishing himself in a thousand different places.

Like in the lady’s bedchamber finishing what they had started.

“You did tell her, didn’t you, Henry?”

“Tell her? Oh, that.”

“Yes, that. Did you tell her or not?”

Henry shook his head.

Preston caught him by the arm and towed him back into the library, closing the door behind them. “Whyever not?”

Henry cursed Preston’s newfound respectability. “I . . . that is to say . . . it’s rather complicated . . .”

Preston, pacing before the aforementioned pike, came to an abrupt halt. “You can’t continue this! You have to tell her who you are.”

Henry shook his head. “I can’t!”

“Why not?”

“She despises me now,” Henry told Preston. “She’ll hate me more so when I tell her the truth.”

And that was putting it mildly. Especially now . . .

Preston’s brows furrowed into a line of confusion. “Why do you care what she thinks of you?”

The confession came out before Henry could stop the words. “Because I love her.”

There was a moment when Preston just stood there—most likely weighing whether or not he’d heard Henry correctly—but then the words registered and the duke sank into the large leather chair.

It creaked and protested.

“No, Henry,” he said, shaking his head. “Not her.”

“Yes, her.”

“She’s a Dale.” It was a statement that in any other circumstances would have been self-evident.

“I couldn’t help myself.”

“One says that over too much wine. Or betting on a nag that any man can see is going to run dead last. But not with one of them.”

A Dale.

Henry raked his hand through his hair. “You like her,” he pointed out.

“Liking her and pulling all the pins out of her hair is an entirely different matter.”

“She’s so demmed gorgeous.” As if that explained the circumstances. Nor could it be resolved by telling Preston that he’d done all that because Daphne Dale was aggravating and opinionated and tempting and delightful.

All at once. No, he’d stick with “gorgeous.”

“Of course she is,” Preston was arguing. “All Dale women are, and that’s the rub. Gorgeous, tempting pieces. Then once you find yourself leg-shackled to one of them, you’ll end up like Cornelius Seldon,” Preston said. “You do recall the story of Cornelius Seldon, don’t you?”

“Yes,” Henry ground out. Zillah used to tell them of Mad Corny’s final trip to Bedlam as a bedtime cautionary tale.

It had given Henry nightmares for years. Until . . .

“And what about Lord Kendrick Seldon? Do you recall how he ended his days once he’d crossed the line?”

Henry’s gaze wandered up to the pike. Kendrick had been the source of his remaining childhood nightmares.

Preston wasn’t done. “I can’t believe you’ve fallen in love with her. What were you thinking?”

Apparently the ruinous interlude in the library was excusable, but falling in love with her, well, that was another matter altogether.

“When and how did this happen?” the duke continued. He glanced around the library. “And I assume this began before tonight?”

Henry nodded. Since it seemed a night for disclosures, he told Preston nearly everything.

About his mistake at the engagement ball. The encounter in the folly.

Meanwhile the duke had gotten to his feet and was once again pacing. “If Hen finds out—”

“Oh, good God, no,” Henry added, coming to his senses.

“Now you see that? After you’ve gone and—”

“Demmit, Preston!” Henry said, getting to his feet as well. “It isn’t like I set out to ruin her.”

It was bad enough she was ruined, but she’d left him aching for more. Left him gobsmacked with the white-hot truth: he’d never stop wanting her.

“You cannot pretend this did not happen,” the duke told him. “There are consequences to these things. There always are.” If anyone would know that, it was Preston. “The Dales will be out for blood.”

“However do you think they will find out?” Henry shot back.

“Someone always finds out,” Preston said, again with the surety of a practiced rake.

“It isn’t as if she is going to tell her family this.” No more than Henry had any intention of telling Hen.

Preston groaned, hand to his forehead. “Of course she won’t say anything directly. But someone will hear of this. Mark my words.”

“Not from Miss Dale. She’s in love with someone else.” Henry paused. “She’s convinced he’s the only man for her.”

The duke turned and studied his nephew. “In love with whom?”

“Dishforth,” Henry said. “She is in love with Dishforth.”

“Dishforth?” Preston’s eyes widened as he tried not to laugh. “That is a tangle.”

“Do not remind me. I loathe the fellow.”

“You are the fellow.”

“Yes, and I’m a wretched bastard in both cases,” Henry admitted.

Preston did laugh this time. “When you tell her that Dishforth is naught but a figment of your imagination, she’ll probably be inclined to share your loathing—so you’ll have something in common.”

“This is hardly funny,” Henry told him, finding nothing amusing in any of it.

“I never said it was. But you must admit”—Preston shook a little, then composed himself enough to finish—“she’s in love with another man who happens to be you.”

“Oh, good God, you are not helping.”

“I suppose I’m not,” Preston said. “But when you do tell her, I might suggest telling her in a letter. Especially if she takes after Kendrick’s Dale bride.”

Henry groaned. “She’ll hunt me down. Determined minx.”

Preston went over to the sideboard and filled two glasses with brandy. He handed one to Henry.

Henry raised his glass in a mock toast. “Demmed Dishforth. Bloody, rotten fellow.”

“He’s supposed to get us out of fixes, not make our lives a tangled mess,” Preston mused.

Henry glanced over at him. “What did you say?”

“Dishforth. He’s ever so unreliable, and such a horribly unfeeling creature,” he said, using the line Hen had once given their nanny about one of Dishforth’s alleged crimes. It had become one of those oft-repeated sayings between the three of them.

What a horribly unfeeling creature Mr. Dishforth can be. Ever so unreliable.

“That’s it!” Henry said. Raising his glass, he added, “To Dishforth, may he prove himself such a horribly unfeeling creature that she’ll have nothing to do with him.”

Daphne hurried up the stairs and down the first hall she came to, only to discover she was on the wrong floor, and in the wrong wing.

Glancing around, she realized she was standing in front of the music room, and from inside came a crash of the keys.

She whirled around and found Lady Zillah making a beeline for her. The lady seemed to have lost most of her infirmities; fiery determination marked her every step.

“You there!” the lady said, shaking a bony finger at her.

There was no hope of fleeing now.

Lady Zillah came to a stop before her and took in her disheveled appearance with a quick glance and a very loud snort. “Bah! Get in here, Miss Dale. I will have a word with you.”

Daphne found herself rooted in place, for inside the music room was a large fireplace, and even though it was August, there was a good blaze roaring away.

“Don’t keep me waiting!” Lady Zillah chided as she turned back toward the piano. “Any niece of Damaris Dale would have better manners than that.”

She would if she wasn’t so uncertain whether or not the crone before her wasn’t about to pop her in the fireplace.

But Daphne was also Damaris’s niece, so with her head held high, albeit missing hairpins, she strode into the music room as if this was to be merely a friendly chat.

Lady Zillah sat with her back ramrod straight, and she took another look at Daphne before she began with the honesty for which she was famous.

“If you think that rapscallion nephew of mine will marry you even now after he’s obviously tumbled you—”

“My lady!” Daphne burst out.

“Was it him, or wasn’t it?” Lady Zillah demanded. When Daphne refused to answer, Lady Zillah took her silence as confirmation.

The interview went rather downhill from there, and ended with Lady Zillah stalking out of the music room in high dudgeons.

But that wasn’t the worst of it.